


Milkdrinker

by DesertSkald



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Crack, Gen, My brother's crazy Altmer character, Skyrim Kink Meme, he's almost as crazy as Cicero, implication that NPC gets disintegrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7574740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertSkald/pseuds/DesertSkald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some people you just shouldn’t call ‘milkdrinker’. Dark Brothers, the Archmage of Winterhold, the Dragonborn... </p><p>Gods help you if you insult all three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milkdrinker

**Author's Note:**

> Should be working on Omens or White-Gold. What do I decide to do? Post old stuff from the meme. (Posted on... 4/12/15)
> 
> Rhyggja Aldrinar has another story I need to write about another hilarious random encounter (that also actually happened, this guy's saves were a t r i p) but yeah. Enjoy.

Eydis looked up from wiping down the counter and beamed at the new patron, a tall man in an eyeless mask and crimson black leather armor. Two visitors in one day, and it wasn’t even lunch yet.

“Come on in.”

The man grunted and dropped a weighted pack on the nearest table with enough force to knock over the empty tankards. He bent over the bag and reached inside, frowning when something in a side pouch was missing.

“Damn Arniel, I thought I got rid of all those...” He muttered, throwing dwarven cogs on the ground and cursing softly.

Eydis leaned back but eyed the cogs. There was a dwarven obsessed wizard in Markarth, and he paid good coin for anything related to the dead elves. Her eyes widened when the stranger pulled out an impossibly long strut of bronze metal from the tiny pack. It slid off the bench and he kicked it before digging into the bag, finally shoving his masked head inside. Eydis stared at the length of metal - which must have come up to the man’s hip at least - and to the tiny bag that the man was attempting to wear upside-down. Skuli ran upstairs and handed her a case of Horningbrew mead, poking his head over the counter at their guest.

“Skuli why don’t you go dust all the bottles? Don’t want folks thinking we’ve a nest of Frostbite spiders in the cellar.” Eydis grabbed his shoulders and ushered him back downstairs.

“Aha!” The man shouted triumphantly, pulling out a small coin purse. Eydis forced a smile and straightened her smock-

The man tripped on a shoulderstrap and rolled to the floor with a yelp, the bag skittering against the hearth. Eydis held her hands out and grabbed the purse before it hit the counter. The masked man started vehemently cursing now, hurling the scattered pieces of dwarven metal back in the pack along with a-

Was that a daedric knife? She’d never seen one before, but if the innkeeping matron had to describe something wholly unholy, it would be that serrated black blade. The back of her neck started to sweat and she was glad Skuli was downstairs.

“You’ll be looking to rent Tiber Septim’s room I take it?” She asked as he buttoned the pack back up and tossed it at the bottom of the wood post.

“I was planning to explore some of the ruins in the hills actually; I’m just looking for some food. Eidar cheese is preferred, though I suppose all you have is _goat_.” The masked man said with a sigh. He walked over to the counter and was nearly shoved to the floor by her other patron: a Nord woman like herself but in carved Nordic panoply.

“What’s a milk drinker like you doing out here? Go home to your mother.” The woman sneered, throwing back the rest of her mead. Eydis opened her mouth to object-

“I don’t think you should speak to me like that.” The odd man said, tapping a finger at her sternum and actually pushing her back an inch. The woman held his wrist and started squeezing. It looked painful from the way his fingers were jittering and twisting to escape, but her grip was firm. The man was eerily quiet aside from the crinkling of his leather gloves.

“Why? What are you gonna do, _cry_?”

He scoffed, his hand suddenly slipping free and tucked behind his back. “If you don't apologize now, I'm afraid I'll have to kill you.”

That’s when Eydis quietly backed away, taking the sword from under the counter and retreating to the cellar staircase.

“I don’t have to take that from you!” The woman snarled. Eydis scampered down the stairs and hid by the door. Swords were drawn, and clashed. One of them clattered to the floor.

“Bastard!” The woman yelled. Heavy footsteps rushed across the floorboards. There was a flash of light and a wave of heat, followed by the roar of a firey explosion. Eydis gripped the sword hilt tighter and peeked over the floor’s edge, hearing the sound of leather being dusted off.

“Terrible, terrible manners. Getting dust and soot everywhere...”

Boots walked over towards the stairs and she put her palm on the door handle. The boots walked away. Something was lightly scratching- no, that was the broom. She frowned. The man was singing nonsense words to what sounded like a child’s ditty and scraped the rest of whatever he was cleaning into something metal. He walked to something and banged the metal against something wooden. The broom was returned to the corner by the fish barrels.

“Madam? Hello?” He called out.

Eydis exhaled and walked up the stairs, trying to pretend this was normal and there was nothing unusual about having multiple customers, or her customers trying to kill each other without buying something first.

The man had removed his mask and he blew on it, shaking his head back and forth to scour all the nooks with his breath. The Nord woman was nowhere to be seen.

“Can I get you anything?” Eydis asked, keeping her voice as even as possible.

The man turned to look at her, wild orange eyes ringed by smudged facepaint. Or it could have been blood, it was dark enough; and red, she noted grimly. The paint or blood trailed down to an angry scar where a claw had raked his mouth. A few wisps of white hair peeked out from under his hood. Those orange eyes, she realized, were boring a hole in her face.

The high elf straightened and strode over to the counter, placing the strange metal mask down between his hands. He thrummed his fingers against the counter and stroked a non-existent beard. Suddenly he slammed both hands on the table and smiled down at her.

“Milk.”


End file.
